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feel to be The Girl from Colosimo’s grown into Irene of the Studebaker? Does success thrill?” I seek to know with a gush of, perhaps, gushing questions.
“I should be afraid of a thrill of that kind; I’d suspect myself. I know, Mr. Montgomery knows, you know, lots of people know, how much I’ve got to learn before I can be anything like a real success on the stage. I think it’s only the self-deceiving people that lack the right humility in their work who thrill up and gloat ‘What a great fellow am I !’ Some people perish of applause — especially when they themselves lead it. It’s the ‘best seller’ that’s ruined more good novelists than anything else.”
“But there must have been some pleasurable reaction to your performance to-night?”
“I’ll tell you,” she leans over the table and says: “I had one of my old jolts to-night as I hurried out of the theater, away from the sweet clean merriment and romance and melody of ‘Irene.’ For the tiniest fraction of an instant it seemed that now I must rush back out there to the old place, and sing any that were called for of the thousand terrible tuneless, grammarless ballads which I used to know so well, so pitifully well. That was always my jolt after a night at the opera, after in imagination I had been one with Mimi or Cio-Cio-San or Santuzza: back to those abysmal ditties. And to-night I felt the old jolt for an instant — and then it was good to realize that it was only memory playing a trick on me.”
“You will go out to Colosimo’s some night?” “Oh, yes, I’ll go — some night. See that man over there? — the one with the bald head and the young girl. He seems to look like, he seems to typify, the old place. Oh, the thousands of him I’ve seen!” She laughs; real laughter; her eyes laugh, too.